dove schnee, district eight | cb

Little dove —

That's what her mother always called her, until she died. The Schnees didn't have the money to afford her treatment, and her mother decided to wait out her illness and let the cancer eat her alive.

Dove will never forget her last words, spoken softly in a mutter as her mother's breath faded —

"I love you, little dove."

She was never the same after that, shut herself off from everyone and wouldn't speak a word, not even to her friends at school. Dove was always a quiet, reserved child, but never like this. Her father thought it would pass — "It's just a phase," he always said — but then it didn't. Dove hasn't spoken a word in years.

Instead, she draws pictures. Watercolor paintings of the sunset, bedazzled crayon drawings of the night sky, black and white sketches of scenery and her favorite people. It is the only way she expresses herself now; she draws or paints every day. She uses cold or dark colors when she's sad — which is often — and bright, warm colors on the rare occasions when she's happy. Content is a better word. Dove hasn't been truly happy in years, and she doesn't think she ever will be.